


Party Pooper

by bluesapphireprincess



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1950s, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-08-18 18:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesapphireprincess/pseuds/bluesapphireprincess
Summary: If you go back and look at your life there are certain scenes, acts, or maybe just incidents on which everything that follows seems to depend. Your goals, your priorities can change instantaneously—usually when you least expect it.For Tom Riddle that moment is the Minitry’s Party, where his eye catches a mysterious witch, whose secrets, he is sure, are as alluring as her eccentric personality.





	1. Prologue

If you go back and look at your life there are certain scenes, acts, or maybe just incidents on which everything that follows seems to depend. Your goals, your priorities can change instantaneously—usually when you least expect it. For Tom Riddle that moment is, ironically, the Minitry’s Samhain Party.

Why ironically, you’d ask?

You see, he has never had much patience for all these ostentatious little gatherings and glittering affairs, where the illustrious pureblood nobility do their best to flaunt their wealth and dress, while those of lower rank and stature fawn upon them, tripping over their defunct dignity to stay in a Malfoy's grace, for acquaintances in the grandest positions of power is a necessary evil, if one dreams of a striking career in the Ministry.

He needs not anything of the sort. At least, not any more. With a mere flick of his wrist, he could make this very high and mighty Malfoy kneel before him if he so desired. He has almost all the heirs of the Sacred Twenty Eight wrapped around his finger. Their loyalty, their minds, even their wealth that they so like to show off - all of it lie with him. 

So why would he trouble himself to attend their insignificant little matinees when they have nothing vauable to offer but the company of a bunch of airy cretins? He has more urgent matters to sort out, after all. 

Their silly interests and pleasures are of no account to him. The patricians and the plebeians. He regards them all in a lordly condescension.

Forsooth, his tastes are much more savoury than an icth for some silly Ministry position or a compulsion to repatedly show off others that he is of better means than others are - of course, he is, but why would the king lower himslef in an effort to show the dwarf his crown? No, his ambitions and passions are much more higher than that, for he covets a throne. Soon he will be their Emperor. 

And yet, these Ministry parties, as humdrum and tedious as they might seem, can be quite advantageous when it comes to cultivating some other kinds of interesting connections. Like making a casual acquaintance with the Durmstrang Headmaster, or the renowned portioner like Mr Dagworth-Granger. 

These kind of acquaintances open up so many wonderful possibilities and are quite of use to his cause. 

He would be foolish to squander such an opportunity. Therefore, he compels himself occasionally to make an appearance at one of those lavish parties, though never stays for longer than he deems necessary. Perchance, he would indulge his companion and take her to dance before promptly calling it a night.  

Sadly, most witches he had the pleasure to have attended these functions with fancied themselves some sort of his girlfriends and had no notion of private space, getting too touhy-feely with him, too close for his comfort.

By all accounts they were lucky he was kindly enough to Obliviate them after sending a couple of Crucios at them. He supposes he might have been quite rough with them, but it is not as if he caused them brain damage - by all means, his punishment poses no such a risk there. 

Especially since those stupid wenches were practically asking for this. And a man has so much patience. 

“You are witch or what _?”_ he swears, he barely keeps himself from throwing the curse at her, every time some stupid bint smiling coyly, mewls somethng like, "Tom, can you refill me a glass of Butterbeer".

Yet, his thoughts never burst into actions. He is a gentleman and, after all, has an image to maintain. Appearances, as always, matter.

He, like any another man, appreciates pulchritude, (Tom Riddle is not completely emotional cripple - shocking, isn’t it?), but he prefers to do it from a safe distance, because once the girl opens her big fat mouth, he suddenly finds himself wishing to make her silence her with Avada.

 

But I digress. It is purely by chance that on the 31st of October he find himself here, amongst the rich and ritzy crowd, with a girl whose name is - Eleanor? Elena? Ella? _-_ he cannot remember, though her last name must definitely be a Rosier. She has cleaned up nicely, he supposes, but that is all what is required of a trophy-date, after all. He is in the middle of an interesting (huh?) conversation with Mr Lestrange, when he sees Her, fifteen feet from where he is standing, on the arm of his former housemate's cousin, Septimus Malfoy. He recalls Abraxas telling him about this unfortunate relation of his. Septimus, he said, was too Muggleborn loving, that would be his ruin. Usually, he doesn’t spare a glance to the random women his associates and muc less their cousins bring to the parties, but this one is... different somehow, special.

Tom has long ago learnt that one can tell a lot about someone only taking the time to watch the way they move, the shift of their eyes, the rise and fall of their voice.

And observing this witch is spellbinding.

She’s wearing a red backless dress— classy and flirty —that accentuates every perfectly toned curve.

She is not a conventional beauty, no. Hazel eyes, unruly curls, delicate features and slender figure and freckles. A reasonably pretty, but not stunning. Until you look more closely. 

It is the way she carries herself with confidence of a woman who has a faith in her abilities, who has a sort of inner strength that the girl on his hand lacks. And Tom Riddle is intrigued.

He is so mesmerized that for a minute he forgets that he is still about to answer Mr Lestrange’s question.

As if feeling someone watching her, she turns to him with a raised brow, and her hawk eyes appraise him from head to toe.

Never leaving his eyes, she murmurs something to Septimus, who darts a worried glance towards Tom and slowly nods. Her lips curve into a tiny smile, before she turns on her heels, moving in his direction.

His breath slightly hitches.

Completely oblivious to her physical appeal, she is walking with chin high, radiating power and confidence, and there’s something about her aura that is screaming intelligence, sophistication, mystery and curiously ... darkness.


	2. Chapter 1

“Mr Riddle, after hearing so many good things about you here, I'm delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”

Her voice is soft, melodic, almost like a lullaby he heard once and then forgot.

“All the best things I hope, Miss...” He pauses, giving her a moment to fill in her name. He bets it would be something catching, outstanding something like -

“Hermione. Hermione Granger.”

_Exquisite. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione..._

The name seems so familiar. Is it Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale? Maybe a Greek myth?

“A mysterious name for a mystery-woman. It is pleasure to meet you, Miss Hermione Granger, as well”. He shoots her his standard yes-I-know-I’m-handsome smile, but she doesn’t seem to notice. He is partly pleased that she is not that easy to deceive.

The band starts playing slowly. They play old, soft music. _A waltz, a love song..._

She smoothes the stray curl behind her ear and asks coyly, “May I have this dance?”

Raising an eyebrow, he offers her his hand, “Isn’t a man usually supposed to ask a woman this kind of a question?”

As he leads her onto the dance floor, she whisperes in a husky tone, that from any other woman he would have interpreted as sensual overture, “ _You see, I am not a usual kind of woman_.”

The curl she keeps tucking behind her ear falls lose again. He watches it fall, mesmerized, as it’s a miracle in the making. He fights the urge to lean in and trace a finger down its length.

Damn it, he thinks, I should not have taken so much alcohol. It messed with my thinking.

He slides his hands gently down to the small of her back, splaying his fingers just slightly above her backside. His feet begin to pull with the music. It swells around them, and they dance with ease that belies with the fact he has never met this woman before.

She is the perfect size to partner him, though. Light and airy, she follows his lead faultlessly, floating across the floor. She moves like someone who knows what she is doing, never missing a step or nuiance in movement. He feels the underlying strength beneath the facade of her delicate body. _Yes, she fits him perfectly._

He studies her face, taking full advantage of the opportunity to inspect her. She isn’t overtly beautiful. She has a gentle appearance, a calming countenance with bright eyes and sweet, dimpled cheeks. Until you notice her lips. He cannot help but admire her full, nicely shaped lips, those lips that give her an earthy sexiness that is far more dangerous to his state of mind than mere beauty would have been. And her freckles! He wonders, what they taste like. Does she have freckles other places? He’d love to...

These disturbing thoughts suddenly cross his mind, when she decides to break the silence, “So it is true then, what the witches say. You do waltz like a dream”, her eyes sweep his face, catching on his brow, his jaw, and finally fixing on his mouth with unabashed interest, and - he loathes to admit - the movement causes an involuntary clenching in his groin. She brings her gaze back to meet his, “And you are undeniably handsome, up close.”

He chuckles roughly, “You certainly are not an ordinary woman, Miss Granger.”

She laughs softly to herself, “Finally, someone noticed that I am not a brainless beauty like, say, your date here - by the way, where is she? I hope she doesn’t mind us dancing!” — here she gives him with a wicked little grin— “For instance, unlike all of them I am not thrilled with the prospect of fake-smiling to all these rich sexist prejudiced doodles with “irreplaceable” value to our magical community for another half an hour. Still, it is a pity, I can’t afford myself not to be a part of these stuperfying parties. Only a fool I would not understand the value of connections”.

He sends her a curious look, “I can almost relate to your feelings, but what a risky move - you telling me this. I could be one of these - as you yourself said - _rich sexist prejudged doodles”._

She looks at Tom as though he is a mythical creature, “We both know you are not. You may be rich, you may prejudiced, you may be sexist - which I dare say you strike me as all those things - but you are definitely not a doodle. You associate yourself with all these people until they have something of use to you” — she rakes him with a sharp look — “As soon as they have nothing to offer, you will not spare them a second glance. But brilliant mind is something you never dismiss so easily. The case is just that you are rarely to come across such a thing. _Have I got it right, n’est-ce pas_?”

Yes, you have, he answers in his mind, but remains silent. He is even more intrigued by her acute observations and her bold demeanor.

A flurry of confusion and questions is rioting in his head. _Who is she? Hermione, Hermione..._

The sound of her voice haunts his ears; the scent of her perfume - a luscious contrast of bitter almond notes, jasmine, cinnamon and vanilla - drives him crazy, and she - Salazar, help him-makes him feel... Frenzy, fervor, desire.

She lifts her head, elongating the smooth, pale column of her neck. No freckles there. Only an enticing curve of creamy, soft-looking, sweet-smelling female skin. He doesn’t know which he yearns to do more. Wring that neck, or lick it. Biting it might be a fair compromise. An action that mingls pleasure with punishment.

Because she deserves to be punished, the impertinent minx. She’s chosen to wage this battle. A rebellion of joy.

She knows nothing about him! He should be furious.

_We both know you are not..._

He is, to some extent.

_You may be rich, you may prejudiced, you may be sexist..._

She can’t know anything about him!

_I dare say you are all those things..._

She must know something.

It can be simple but brilliant deduction, but - 

_You certainly are not an ordinary woman, Miss Granger..._

The witch is scintillating. Not an adjective Tom uses much in his life, but Hermione Granger is just that.

_You are rarely to come across such a thing..._

He wonders what, who is she. What is it in this woman that makes him feel what he feels?

_He is enthralled. Possessed. Bewitched. By her brilliantmind, her delicate body, her tantalizing curls, her sassy mouth, and her magic - this delicious mixture of power, boldness and darkness - her very soul._

Brains and beauty. Normally, those two parts never fit into the same female body.

_Who are you, Hermione Granger?_

The mystery he wants to unveil.

“Mr Riddle, have I rendered your speechless?” Her voice is as clear as a bell, and full of insolent mirth.

He finds that her brash impertinence holds a sudden charm, “Tell me, Miss Granger, is this your first time here? I simply cannot have overlooked such a beauty attending these gatherings. You would have made them more bearable.I must admit, I find your company quite _enjoyable_.”

“Why, thank you, Mr Riddle, you flatter me, and not to wound your gentleman’s megalomaniac ego, my perfect lady-like manners dictate me to inform you your company is much more preferable than any other wizard’s here, which, however, preposterous it might seem, is too a truism. But to answer your question - yes, I have never attended these gathering before, I suppose you are lucky to be my first dancing partner.”

He likes even less the idea that pops into his head after those words. He has never had the same reaction to any witch. He has never wanted to touch them, kiss them or worse... What is she doing to him? He is losing it. He must be drugged. This is the only explanation.

“Forgive me for asking, but I can’t help but be curious... Why is that so? Surely, a young lady such as yourself must be obliged to be present at this kind of events.”

She arches a delicate eyebrow with a look that conveys her censure, “Is it supposed to be a subtle way of trying to dig into my past, Mr Riddle? Because if it is, it is not subtle at all. I must warn you, my secrets may not be as dull and cheerful as those that many little pureblood witches here like to write in their shiny diaries, but that doesn’t mean I want to share them, they are _mine_ and _mine only to keep_ ”. He chooses to ignore the anger in her tone, “I assume that’s a nice way of saying, ‘ _stop prying into my life, Mr. Riddle._ ’ Isn’t it?”

She smiles in acknowledgement. “I could respond by asking about your past. You’d better not to make such a mistake of underestimating me again. I tend to I terribly get under the skin.”

You already have, his mind adds, like a silent, truthful arrow.

The heat in her eyes intensifies. Maybe, he has the same effect on her. Merlin, he wants her to be as affected as he is. His heart pounding, Tom moves forward and whisperes into her ear, “I just want to get to know you, Hermione. No ulterior motive.”

Her lips curl into a smile, that tells him she knows he is lying. Getting to know her isn’t enough. He wants more than that. He just hasn’t decided what that “ _more_ ” is. _Her loyalty, affection, power - all of her?_

Behind the humor, sexual awareness crackles and sparks, holding them pinned as the music stops. Couples begin to leave the dance floor, but they stay. Instead of releasing her, Tom absentmindedly tightens his arms around her waist. Her chestnut brown eyes snare his dark onyx, and for one awful moment he thinks she can see right through him. The thought alone is ridiculous, so he dismisses it immediately.

He has no idea just how long they stand there staring at one another before she finally whispers, “Liar”. Her voice is so low that it sounds as if it’s been roughed up with sandpaper. But it continues gaining strength as she adds, “ _We both know there are always ulterior motives.”_

With those words, she wrenches out of his arms before inhaling a shaky breath and tearing down the hallway. She doesn’t bother glancing back before finally reaching the gates. He suppresses the urge to follow her, letting the mystery woman retreat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I’m back! Thank you all for your lovely comments and kudos. These two month were crazy as hell, but I finally made it to write it. I can’t promise I will update more frequently, but I can promise I WILL update.  
> Hope you liked this chapter :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! Let me know what do you think of this fic and if there is any sense to continue it.


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